How Cruel I Can Be
by AhiFlame
Summary: Destroying Beckett may have given him the chance he needed now he's back with an undefeatable armada and set on hunting down and exterminating the Brethren.  Post AWE AU of the aftercredits scene.
1. Prologue

_Author's Note: This story would not exist if not for JackFan2's planting of the plot bunny and wonderful betaing help. Thank you so much, you're amazing!_

Prologue

Everything was lost. His carefully laid plans were literally blowing up in his face and all he could do was drift slowly, ghostlike and only vaguely aware, down the quarterdeck stairs.

It only made sense that the men would flee; with the _Dutchman_ on her starboard firing relentlessly and the _Pearl_ raking her port side, even the formidable _Endeavor_ was helpless. Retaliation was futile as many of her gun crews were dead; all were taken by surprise. When the call to abandon ship sounded from one of the under officers the men leapt for their lives.

The destruction of what he had believed the most formidable fleet in the Indies was brought to bear by filthy, lawless _pirates_. All the more insult that Jack Sparrow and his ship had escaped yet again.

The deck bucked beneath him suddenly, shattering to splinters as the powder magazine was touched by a piece of shot. An indescribable pain pierced the veil of numb disbelief as surely as the splinters of wood pierced his flesh as he was hurtled away from the smoking wreck of his ship. The burning stopped suddenly as his body made contact with the cool waters of the Caribbean and he instinctively kicked once more before accepting his fate. He and his cause were lost; there was nothing he could do to change that.

Slowly he and the East India Company flag on which he had curiously landed drifted down into the cold but oddly welcoming depths of the sea. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was preparing to come face-to-face with Jones and receive his final sentence.

Barely conscious, it took a long while for him to realize that he was no longer drifting downward, though the flag continued to sink. He found this strange, but did not have the energy to question it. Perhaps this state of neutrality was the essence of being dead.

Deciding to take things in stride, Beckett closed his eyes and settled his mind for a long wait.

"Cutler Beckett," an unfamiliar voice whispered, sounding only vaguely different than the gentle gurgling of water and air bubbles surrounding his essentially lifeless body. The man in question did not move or in any way respond to the voice's summons.

"Do not toy wit' me. I know you live, aldough you s'ould not." The voice paused, waiting for his answer. "Mmm, very well. You do not wis' revenge on de Bredren nor for a chance to redeem yourself."

Suddenly a wicked coldness closed around him and drained away what little breath he had managed to hold all this time. Beckett burst into a frenzied and pathetic struggle with the crushing blackness but knew instantly that he had no chance. _I will do anything for one last chance to put Sparrow in his place!_

As quickly as it had enveloped him the coldness dissipated and he ceased drifting downward. He felt as if he were being held in two enormous hands. "Who are you?" Beckett ventured.

"Do not concern yourself wid trivial mattahs," the voice chided, but not entirely cruelly. "All you need to know is dat you 'ave anoder c'ance. Do not waste it."

"I demand to know who I am speaking to," Beckett managed, though nowhere near as commandingly as he had intended.

"Padetic 'uman, do not dink you can command a goddess."

At those words Beckett fell silent. His previous dealings with the supernatural had been limited to Jack's compass and the _Dutchman_'s crew...but never something as frightening and awe-inspiring as a goddess. He knew he would have to tread carefully, but his pride balked at the thought of submitting to and acknowledging a power greater than himself. Then again, he was nothing worth fearing currently. And tired, so tired...

"Cutler Beckett, your time is s'ort. Will you serve my purposes, accept immortality and fulfill your desire for revenge?"

Immortality? "What are you proposing, exactly?"

"Become Captain of de _Dutc'man_ and 'unt down de Bredren."

_"The Bredren Court? All of dem; de last ding dey will learn in dis life is 'ow cruel I can be."_ The phrase echoed hauntingly around him, not exactly the same as when the disembodied voice was speaking directly to him; more like the remnants of a memory...or a nightmare.

"I repeat, your time is s'ort. If you deny my request, you will expedite your passing to de oder world. Accept and you will 'ave command of de _Dutc'man_ and de sea."

"I dare not deny your request," Beckett said hesitantly. He sensed that his relatively easy acquiescence pleased the unknown goddess as the water around him grew slightly warmer. "But the fact of the matter is, Sparrow's ship has already defeated the _Flying_ _Dutchman_ and her undead crew once before. What's to stop history from repeating itself?"

"Silence!" the voice bellowed harshly. Despite his stern demeanor Beckett could not help but flinch. "I will 'elp you get revenge on de Bredren but not yet. Your spirit is too weak and de time is not rig't. And do not worry yourself over de trifles; an armada awaits your command."

"When then? By the time you see fit to act Sparrow may very well have gotten himself killed in some ridiculous stunt."

"Do not question my timing; you undahestimate Jack Sparrow. 'im 'ave favor wit' Fate; 'im will not die until de moon glows red. Wait and see."


	2. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I claim no ownership whatsoever of _Pirates of the Caribbean_ or any of the characters/places contained therein._

_A/N: Thank you to JackFan2 and wolfgazer325 for thier input on this chapter and the time they took to look it over._

Chapter 1

Heartless as he was, even he could not deny the honest pleasure of sharing a quiet moment with his ship. He was stretched out on the _Dutchman_'s bowsprit, enjoying the mist of sea spray billowing around him as he half-dozed. Of course he had no need of the respite, but some habits were just too good to give up.

At times like this his thoughts were free to wander, unburdened, and more often than not they graced him with an image of Elizabeth, fierce and perfect as she had been the last time he'd seen her. Her hair whipping untamed in the strong breeze...dark garments clinging to her delicate form...eyes meeting his with such longing as he'd never seen before... He could almost feel the moment, could smell the salty air; felt her touch, light enough, but full of passion...

Will started back into reality, belatedly realizing that he _could_ feel a touch; hands were running playfully through his unbound hair. His first instinct was to start up, to face this intrusion, but there was something about it that stopped him. He settled on opening his eyes and using a hand to shield them from the glaring sun.

"You miss 'ah, don't you? I am sorry your destiny led to dis,"

"But?"

"But Fate is more fickle den I. 'owever," she paused and Will belatedly realized that he was speaking to no human form; the goddess' voice was disembodied, carried over him by the breeze, as was her touch. He supposed that at one point he might have been deeply disturbed by the situation, but thanks to Jack Sparrow he could now take such things in stride.

"'owever you 'ave served me well, William Turner. Dese past two years you 'ave served more faidfully than any oder. I offer you a reward, wit' one condition - do not betray Jack Sparrow."

Will's brow furrowed and his hand drooped a little. He had never intended to have another dealing with that eccentric pirate. Mentally shrugging at the simplicity of the agreement on his part, Will nodded. The breeze suddenly stilled around him, though the ship did not loose momentum. The next spray of a broken wave rained down on Will like shards of broken glass, cutting his exposed torso and carrying the blood with it back into the sea.

"Agreed," the goddess' voice purred as the breeze and mists returned to their normal forms and motions.

Absently, Will rubbed at the various cuts on his chest - they were all superficial, just deep enough to draw a hint of blood. He froze as his fingers traced the line of the scar, the source of his bind to the _Dutchman._ In hindsight it was not an entirely regrettable situation; after all, he was still alive, still able to protect Elizabeth - albeit from a distance.

A curse suddenly sprang into his mind, one he desired to put on Jack - if not for the pirate's scheming, none of this would have happened...but Will stopped himself short, heeding the goddess' warning. He still didn't know what reward he had been promised, but he dared to hope it involved returning to Elizabeth and so he withheld his fury. He resolved then to never think on Jack Sparrow again.

The ship lurched suddenly, dragging herself around to face a new heading. The wind shifted and filled the _Dutchman_'s sails, aiding her in rushing to claim a new batch of souls. At first Will had needed comforting from the rest of the crew regarding this strange behavior, but he had grown to accept it and now he pushed himself off the bowsprit and made his way to the helm, his mouth set in a grim line.

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Something was wrong. Elizabeth pushed herself off the mattress and cast her gaze around the dark room. Silence. Why was it so quiet? She could hear the frantic pulsing of her heart, could feel it hammering quietly in her mind. But she was accustomed to _two_ pulses... _The chest!_

Elizabeth flung the sheets aside and leapt from the bed, crossing her small room in a few strides. She didn't need to light a candle to see where she was headed; she had visited the chest's resting place an uncountable number of times before. After all, a piece of Will resided there, always pulsing reassuringly. Sometimes she could almost hear his voice in the sound of his heartbeat.

She fumbled with the key, struggling to unlock the chest. The silence of the room was overwhelmingly deafening. _Was he dead? Why could she not hear the heart?_ Finally the key slid into the lock, she twisted and the lid released with its typical theatric hiss. Elizabeth yanked the chest open and peered inside. Now she wished for a candle, for the interior of the chest was darker even than the room. She plunged her hands into the box and pawed around, ignoring the blood and slime that seeped under her nails.

Nothing.

No, that simply couldn't be right. Nothing? Elizabeth restarted her groping search but once again came up with the same chilling result: Will's heart was gone.

Elizabeth didn't know whether she should cry, scream, or dash out into the night, hire a ship, and flee in search of the _Dutchman_.

Her dilemma was shoved aside by a quiet knock on the front door. Elizabeth tensed; no sane - or honest - person would be calling at this hour of the night. As quietly as she could, she opened the trunk at the end of her bed and withdrew the sword she had claimed captaincy with at the last meeting of the Court.

The knocking started again.

"Coming," she called, doing her best to sound half-asleep though every muscle in her body was tense. She grasped the doorknob with her left hand, wielding the sword in her right. Exhaling silently, she swung the door open and raised the sword to strike.

Her arm and heart froze as recognition dawned. It couldn't be possible; she had to be dreaming. Will could not be standing before her, inexplicably drenched and gilded by the moonlight. It could not have been Will who moved forward then, took the sword from her unresisting grip, and caught her in a passionate kiss.

"Will," Elizabeth whimpered, clinging to his sodden form. She wanted to say so much more, but she did not trust her voice. The phrase she whispered daily to the sea breeze in hopes it would somehow carry to him pushed its way to the forefront of her mind and between kisses and tears of joy she managed to voice it: "I love you."

"Elizabeth." Her body tingled in response to his voice; for two years she had heard it only in her memories and dreams, but the true sound of it exhilarated her. The husky breathiness of his voice when he spoke her name with only passionate love in his mind was a sound she would treasure always.

A nagging doubt surfaced at the back of her mind and she drew away from him, meeting his smoldering brown gaze guardedly. It had only been two years; the curse dictated that eight more must pass before she would see him again.

A pained expression crossed his features at her withdrawal and he slowly reached for her. She caught his hand and held it in both of hers lightly, meeting his gaze with the firmness of spirit that he had always admired. He clasped her fingers in his hand and raised them so that he could place a gentle kiss on each of her hands.

"Will, are you really here or am I dreaming?"

He paused mid-kiss and looked up at her, his eyes solemn. "The _Dutchman_ no longer has need of a captain."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Will released her hands and straightened, all traces of love and joviality wrung from him by some haunting memory. He turned away from her, just enough so she could not meet his gaze directly. "It went down in a storm earlier today."

"What?" Elizabeth asked, amazed. How could an immortal ship, the ferry of souls to the other world, simply capsize in a mere storm? Then a second thought struck her, though it pained her to ask. "Bootstrap?"

Will shook his head slowly, as if burdened by an enormous weight. "I made my decision two years ago, but it was taken from me. Now, by the mercy of the goddess, it has been restored. I don't know why, but Calypso has deemed the _Dutchman_'s service at an end." He reached for her again and this time she did not draw away. He kissed her slowly as if savoring the taste and feel of her. "I'm free."


	3. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I claim no ownership whatsoever of _Pirates of the Caribbean_ or any of the characters/places contained therein._

_Author's Note: Well, that was only a little more than a month. Sorry about that!_

Chapter 2

The incoming tide pushed splintered wooden planks further up onto the beach and almost let them settle before dragging them back out into the darkness for the next wave to interact with. It was like a game for the sea, albeit a very monotonous and repetitive one, Jack thought. At least something was taking joy in his misfortune.

It was a stupid miscalculation on his part. He had judged the tide and skies wrong, had pushed his luck a smidge too far. The storm had risen with an unrivaled fury (or so it had seemed to him sitting in a dinghy instead of aboard the _Pearl_)and forced an angry hand down upon his vessel, running it aground and crushing it. It was not the worst shipwreck he'd ever experienced, but he did feel quite pathetic as he clambered up onto the dark beach, spitting salt water and sand as he went. At least he was alone.

Thunder rumbled high above like a deity's shunning laughter.

Jack looked around. In the dark night it was impossible to get a bearing for the size of his new prison, but he could tell from the lack of illumination that the area around him was uninhabited. Desperate, he turned back to the sea, searching fruitlessly for a light bobbing on the raging tide.

Seeing nothing but unyielding blackness everywhere he looked, Jack shrugged to himself. There was nothing for it; with a resigned sigh he sank to the sand and let his exhaustion overwhelm him.

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The morning was bright and beautiful with nary a cloud in the sky. Young Tobin Paxton inhaled the salty breeze before scampering down the decaying front steps of the lodging house where he and his mother lived. It was not much, but it was all they could afford. Yet with his mother taken ill and unable to work much, their days in the lodging house were numbered. Pushing such melancholy thoughts to the back of his mind, Tobin trotted down the unpaved road toward the town's western edge.

"Oy! Toby!" At the sound of his name Tobin skidded to a halt and swung around to face the voice. When his gaze lighted on Widow Honeycutt, a smile broke across his face. He walked back toward her at a more leisurely pace.

"Mornin' Mistress Honeycutt," he greeted with a polite tug on the brim of his hat. Though his tattered clothes and grime-smeared person marked him for the beggarly child he was, he was known throughout the town for his unusually good manners.

"'ow's yer mother?"

Tobin lowered his gaze. As the Widow watched the youthful sparkle in his eyes fade she regretted her question. "Don't fret lad, s'just a lil' cold. She'll be over it sooner'n you know." She offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile, which the boy did not return.

"Tell you wot, take this," she held out a small brick of butter wrapped in oiled cloth, "to that shack just outside of town. I'd do it meself, but yer a bit faster'n me. She owes a shillin' fer it, make sure to collect that. When you come back there'll be some bread and milk waitin' fer ye. Got it?" Without hesitation, Tobin nodded and took the small package. He turned back the way he had been going and the Widow gave him a small shove. She placed her hands on her hips and sighed with a small shake of her head as the boy sped off down the road.

As he reached the edge of the small town Tobin slowed his pace. He followed the lesser-worn trail toward the cliffs overlooking the sea and there he paused. Standing there, atop the ledge, he felt his worries lift; here and here alone he felt completely free. The breeze came off the sea with a gentle fury all its own and crashed into him, whipping his hair about and bringing tears to his pale blue eyes. The boy cast his gaze downward, watching the surf break upon the shore. His brow furrowed when he saw several planks of wood scattered upon the beach and, more troubling, a body.

His chore forgotten, Tobin dropped the butter and skittered down a seldom-used trail carved into the cliff side. In his haste he lost his footing and plummeted the last few feet. His landing raised a cloud of sand and he coughed, uselessly rubbing at his eyes. He levered himself up onto his forearms and squinted through the settling dust and tears at the other form occupying the beach. In his seven years of life Tobin had seen at least one dead man that he could remember and that encounter left him ill-prepared to judge this situation. While the man he'd seen in the past was rotting from the plague, the one lying before him seemed uninjured save for a few scratches on his face and a larger sore on his jaw line.

Suddenly uncertain, Tobin dragged himself up onto his hands and knees and slowly began crawling toward the man. "Sir," he whispered hoarsely. Since he could scarcely hear his own voice, Tobin licked his parched lips and tried again. "Sir?"

"I 'eard you the first time lad," the man mumbled, waving one hand dismissively. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. However, the boy had other plans. Timidly he inched across the sand until he was sitting a mere foot away from the man. With a halting movement he reached out and brushed his fingers lightly against the other's arm. With a small growl of agitation the man levered himself up onto his elbows and glared at the boy, who shrank away from the look. "What?"

Belatedly realizing that his purpose for descending to the beach was no longer valid, Tobin worked his mouth noiselessly, searching frantically for some explanation. Before he could come up with one the man had pulled himself to his feet and stood swaying, taking inventory of his surroundings.

"There a town 'round here?"

"Yes'ir, 'bout a mile down that way." Tobin pointed in the direction he had come. He suddenly felt quite foolish sitting in the sand and so he stood and did his best to ignore the shaking of his legs.

"'ow big?"

"Not very large, sir."

"Any respectables? Grand houses, carriages an' all that?"

"Just the plantation, sir." It was then that the man's appearance registered in the youth's mind: a pirate. With a start the boy stumbled backward, almost fell, and found his escape blocked by the sheer cliff he'd descended earlier. Looking up at its heights now, he felt his heart sink.

"Somethin' wrong lad?"

Tobin spun around and pressed his back against the stone. His hands groped for a loose rock to use as a weapon, if need be. He froze when the pirate began chuckling.

"'ow old are you, boy?"

"Nigh on seven years sir," Tobin replied, casting his gaze downward. Though he tried to hide it, his whole body was trembling.

"And what do you think of me?" Tobin looked up at the man in surprise, having never anticipated the question. "Well?" the man pressed, settling into an uneven stance. His piercing kohl-rimmed gaze was both frightening and intriguing, as if there were some important secret he would kill to keep. When no response was forthcoming the man turned to face the sea. "Speak up, boy!"

"Forgive me for saying so, but you have the look of a pirate, sir," Tobin stated without thinking. He clapped a hand over his mouth as soon as he realized his folly.

The man grinned and rocked back on his heels ever so slightly. Tobin caught the glint of sunlight off a golden tooth. "And what think you of that?"

Tobin pressed himself closer to the cliff, afraid to answer. Seemingly driven by the boy's silence, the man turned and sauntered toward him, the hint of a lopsided grin on his face though his eyes retained their intensity. He stopped within a few inches of the child, offering no space for escape. "Learn this boy: fear is both a dangerous weapon and a useful tool. Never let it manifest in yerself or your friends, but always instill it in your enemy. _You_ are not _my_ enemy." Having said his peace the man spun and began swaggering in the direction of the town. Tobin watched him guardedly, wondering how such a gait could possibly be practical.

The man raised his right hand and Tobin's attention fixed on the item pinched between his fingers: a piece of eight. "Lend me yer knowledge and it's yours," the man's drawling voice drifted back.

Thinking of his mother and their current financial troubles, Tobin pushed his wariness to the back of his mind and sprinted after the man.

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The crisp breeze followed the shape of the cliffs up from the sea and washed over a vast field of wild grass, curling playfully through the intricate mazes between the stalks. The silvery tips of the grasses waved in response to the wind's gentle caress, becoming a mirror image of the water rolling in below.

A small sigh of contentment rose from within the shroud of grass as Elizabeth stretched and sat up, bracing her weight back on her hands. She inclined her head to gaze down at Will, still fast asleep. The blunted breeze pulled gently at his shirt and breeches and dragged his hair slowly away from his slackened features. Elizabeth tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before shifting her position so she could rest her head on his chest and toy with his hair.

Will's eyes cracked open at the contact and after a moment he smiled groggily. He reached up and ran one hand through Elizabeth's unruly hair. As he savored her presence his eyes drifted shut, his smile deepened and he exhaled heavily. In response Elizabeth snuggled closer to him and closed her eyes, content on falling back into a blissful sleep. Will's hand trailed down Elizabeth's neck and shoulder to rest on her upper arm, his strong fingers massaging gently.

"Will," Elizabeth mumbled, her voice heavy with sleep. His response was a light squeeze on her arm. "Promise me...you'll never leave."

Her words and the uncertainty in her voice drove Will into full wakefulness and he sat up, pulling Elizabeth closer to him as he did so. He held her face in both his hands and was troubled by the single tear that slunk down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb. "You know you don't need to ask that; I could never leave you." Elizabeth smiled and placed a light kiss on his lips.

As quickly as it had come the serious moment vanished and Elizabeth's eyes danced mischievously. "Did you bring your sword?"


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Tobin stepped out into the unpopulated lane, fighting the urge to cast a glance behind him. He ran his fingers over the coin in his hand, unable to believe it was real. "That man really values his information," the boy murmured to himself. His thumb passed over the well-worn silver again. He shook his head. Surely the man was mad.

With a shrug Tobin stuffed the coin in his pocket. He readied to make a sprint for home but after the first stride a _clink_ brought him up short. The boy whirled around and frantically scanned the ground. The piece of eight gleamed in the sunlight. Tobin grabbed it up quickly and, holding it in his fist, started for home. He spared no further thought for the strange man.

Tobin skittered to a stop a half-block away from the lodging house, thoroughly baffled by the group of people collected there. He saw many familiar faces as he neared but no one seemed to take notice of his passage. He wove carefully between the bodies, muttering apologies when he bumped into someone.

Finally he surfaced at the front of the crowd and quirked his head as he looked at the front of his home. At first he wondered what was so interesting to everyone; most of them were fellow tenants or passed by daily…but he saw the object of interest soon enough.

Two men, Thom the fisher and Edward the blacksmith, emerged from the main door, carrying between them a cloth-draped board. The form underlying the cloth was unmistakable and Tobin instantly started searching his mind for who it could be. His brow furrowed in concentration and his gaze drifted down to the ground.

"Careful there Ed!" A bystander called out. Tobin's head shot up, his pulse quickening at the loud voice. The rough canvas had pulled away from the body when Ed had slipped on the stairs and compromised his grip. The subsequently revealed face was familiar; too familiar. Tobin's heart skipped a beat and his throat went dry. Even though the man quickly tried to cover the corpse the damage had been done.

"No!" Tobin screamed, lunging forward. Strong arms brought him up short and he flailed and struggled against them, screaming his agony to the crowd. Hot tears burned their way down his face as he continued to fight and shout. His small fists landed ineffective blows on the arms wrapped around him. His strength was fading quickly, having been released in a gush of fury and anguish.

Eventually he slumped back against the woman holding him, whimpering and crying breathlessly. "Easy Toby, easy," Widow Honeycutt soothed, smoothing back his hair as he continued to choke on sobs.

"But, mum's…"

"I know, I know, shh,"

"Mum!" Tobin cried as the men toting the corpse passed by, their faces grim. Widow Honeycutt tightened her grip on the boy as he surged forward in a helpless attempt to follow the body.

"No lad,"

"Be silent boy," the priest ordered sternly. "Stop your screeching and pray for your mother's soul; there's nothing but proper disposal left for her in this world." He looked down his nose at Tobin, eyes hard as flint. "Let her memory die with dignity." He brushed past in a flurry of dark robes.

Tobin no longer heard Widow Honeycutt's whispered comforts: all that was left in his mind was the gaping hole left by his mother. Wordlessly he allowed the Widow to usher him to his room and advise him on dressing for the funeral.

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"One, three, five, two..."

Elizabeth grinned as Will recited the commands, moving easily to block his strikes. "Will, you know you don't need to--"

"Five A."

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. "Five A?--ah!" She yelped with a giggle as Will aimed to land a hit on the back of her shoulder. Her sword stopped his just in time, hanging back over her shoulder, straining her wrist with the position.

Will smiled gently. "Five A," he repeated, leaning in to plant a kiss warmly on her lips. Elizabeth returned the grin, closing her eyes as she sought to deepen the kiss. But Will was already moving on, calling for more parries. Elizabeth put more push into her blocks, accentuating her annoyance that he had pulled away. Will caught the expression and swung for her left side. As soon as she'd moved to block him, his blade swiveled and landed with the blunt edge on her right shoulder. He pulled her in, kissing her briefly but fiercely. He broke the contact just as suddenly. "Your attack."

Elizabeth cocked her head and the ghost of a smirk lit her face. "Do I have to call parries for you?"

Will shrugged. "If you like."

The grin broke on Elizabeth's face. "Two, five, four, two, three--"

Will struggled to keep up, always moving his sword in accordance to her direction but the blow always came from somewhere else. He barely managed to block all the strikes and finally he grabbed hold of her sword with a displeased frown on his face. "You aren't calling the right positions."

"You never said I had to." She pulled her blade from Will's slackened grip. "Three!"

Will blocked the appropriately placed strike and Elizabeth caught his mouth in a passionate kiss. They separated slowly, smiling. Will wrapped his arms around Elizabeth and both swords dropped to the ground. He dipped her low, kissing her gently. Elizabeth wrapped her fingers in his hair, tugging it free of the leather tie. She opened her eyes mid-kiss and after a moment they widened in shock.

"Whuft's fadt?" she mumbled uselessly, her lips still locked with Will's.

He pulled back, brow furrowed. "What?"

"That!" Elizabeth exclaimed, jerking her chin toward the far-distant lane. Will looked up curiously, almost frightened, worried he'd have a real need for the sword lying nearby. His attention focused elsewhere, his grip slowly faded on the woman below him.

Elizabeth dropped to the ground with an audible _umph_. Will started and rushed to help her up.

"Who is that?" he asked quietly, eyes still focused on the carriage slowly making its way along the poorly worn road.

"There's only one person on this island who even owns a carriage," Elizabeth said.

"A friend of yours?"

"No, we've never spoken; they have no reason to come out here." Will's mouth dropped into a serious line and he retrieved his sword. Elizabeth spun to stop him, a gentle hand stalling his progress. "No Will, I'll go."

"But it could be dangerous,"

"I'm sure it's nothing. Probably just took a wrong turn." Will's disbelieving look made her sigh. "If it were dangerous would I really be going alone?" Another miss. "You can come running to my rescue at the second hint of trouble, how's that?"

"The second?"

"The first has already come and gone." Without waiting for his acquiescence she started off, golden hair bouncing behind her.

Elizabeth sprinted through the tall grass, tugging at her clothing and smoothing her hair as she ran. The wind, coming strong off the ocean, undid the tidying as quickly as she finished it. With her thoughts running wild she scarcely noticed.

She beat the carriage by almost half a mile and stopped, panting, to watch its approach. Twin dappled grey horses strained against their collars as they pulled the heavy carriage over the uneven uphill terrain. Their nostrils flared large, mouths champed at the bits, eyes rolled wildly behind the blinders and sweat stained their coats. Before long Elizabeth could hear the jangling of the harnesses and the thunder of the horse's footfalls.

A whip flicked at the horse's flanks and they jumped into a lope, snorting as they toiled up the incline. Elizabeth's attention turned to the driver who, curiously, was clothed in a heavy black cloak with a large hat pulled low over his face. Even as she was getting over the oddity of his apparel the coachman astonished her further by drawing himself up into a standing position. He moved as one with the jouncing motions of the carriage and continued to expertly drive the horses onward. Elizabeth stared in open-mouthed wonder at the man's finesse.

Belatedly she realized she was standing right in the center of the lane with the puffing horses approaching at a hasty pace. Starting out of her reverie, Elizabeth jumped back into the relative safety of the tall grass. The driver brought the horses and their load to a stop and set the brake on the carriage. The horses shifted their positions, snorting loudly and stomping their feet. One began to paw the dry ground.

The driver let the reins drop and leapt down from his perch. Once on solid ground he seemed unable to keep his footing. He swayed in place, almost precariously at some points and Elizabeth began to wonder if he was drunk. When the driver did not go to the side of the carriage and open the door for his master, Elizabeth chanced a greeting.

"'ello 'lizabeth," the drawled response came, followed closely by the glint of a gold-toothed grin.

Elizabeth's jaw dropped. "Jack!?"


End file.
